


A Crazy Little Thing

by TrouserFreeTuesday



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 06:09:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3108941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrouserFreeTuesday/pseuds/TrouserFreeTuesday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not so much that Dorian didn't want a distraction from studying, it's more that he wasn't entirely prepared to see Iron Bull bar tending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Crazy Little Thing

Dorian is going to murder Sera. Twice, if possible. First, she steals his laundry and he has to go around campus in _sweatpants_ , but then the day before his big ethics in management exam, she texts ( _texts!)_ him saying there’s an emergency and he rushes to her room and what does he find? Her, dressed up, with his clothes spread out on the bed. Of course, dressed for Sera means “something with a barely noticeable mustard stain”, or, in the case of tonight, “mustard coloured to hide the mustard stain”. And, with barely contained irritation, he asks: “What the hell is this about? Fashion disaster nonwithstanding.”

“Party tonight,” Sera says simply, “We’re going.”

Outstanding sales pitch, it is not. But the pile of textbooks and notes in his room are driving him crazy, and now that he’s freed from their grasp, he’ll admit he doesn’t really want to go back. And, he could be getting roaring drunk. Which really settles the matter for him. He doesn’t think much of what the party is for. It’s university, parties are parties. Sera dragged him and Varric to some poor first years birthday party, as well as once a biology student/prof mixer. That was pretty frowned upon. They’d had to pretend to be members of the biology faculty. Which was tricky, because everyone was pretty sure they’d have noticed a ‘little person’ in the biology department. Now, this means that Dorian doesn't realize whose party they're going to until he's staring up at the banner. 

“Sera.” Dorian says flatly. They’re staring up at the entrance to the community center, shivering in the winter chill. A hand painted banner hangs above the door. The community center it’s being held at is only a short walk away from their dorm, so both had decided to forgo jackets. “The Eve of the Eve: Charger’s Christmas Party”, painted on in bright red, is framed by the signatures of the team, as well what looks to be crude phrases. The Chargers are local beer league hockey team, mostly made up of younger students who really like fighting. This could be figured out by looking the team captain, a guy called Iron Bull. The man's huge, a brick shithouse who regularly concusses other players. 

“Hm?” She walks past him, joining the crowd gathering at the door.

“You did this on purpose.” She had to know where they were going. Meaning, then, the reason she didn’t tell him was because a certain someone was going to be there. A strange feeling sweeps through Dorian, a mixture of nervous excitement and dread, that leaves his feet stuck to the pavement.

“You’re sure as shit I did,” she calls over her shoulder. Then she vanishes in the crowd. He’s working up the nerve to turn on his heel and leave. Just go back to the dorms, study. Then there’s a hand clasping on his shoulder.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Blackwall says. Blackwall’s a bit of a mystery. Always around, always excessively hairy, but ask him a simple question like “what do you study” or “what’s your first name?” and he won’t give you a straight answer. Still, if you avoid the personal topics or any mention of proper grooming, he’s pleasant enough.

“Maker, does _everyone_ know?” Dorian sighs. Of course they do. Sera can’t keep a secret to save her life.

Blackwall tilts his head. “You’ve complained more than enough about it.”

“It-?”

“Your exam? The big, dreary, Christmas Eve exam you’ve been griping about since they posted the schedule. What did you think I was talking about?”

Oh. “I. Yes. That exam.”

Blackwall is using his hand on Dorian’s shoulder to push him towards the door. And damn his feet, he’s letting it happen. They’ve wormed their way through the crowd to the ticket booth, and Dorian is paying, Blackwall turns to him with a sly little grin. “Of course, I also wasn’t expecting you to show up considering your blatant crush on the team’s captain.

His hand is in the process of being stamped when Blackwall speaks. He’s paid. There’s no turning back now. Dorian groans.

“I am going to _murder_ Sera.”

——

Bull is there.

Of course he is. He’s the captain, where else would he be? He’s in the back, tending the bar. Dorian can spot him from across the room, hulking figure clear to see above the crowd. The room is dimly lit, and flashing strobe light make the dance floor the brightest spot in the room. Bull is little more than a sillouette, but it’s still him. Maker, the man is massive. Something must pass across his face, because Blackwall starts laughing.

“Maker, Sera wasn’t kidding.”

Dorian coughs, covering his mouth with the crook of his elbow in a desperate attempt to hide his blush. The nerve of the man, insinuating he has a crush on that classless, handsome, hockey goon. Sera makes her way back through the crowd, carrying two drinks.

“You drink rum, yeah?” Sera shouts over the noise as she approaches. The DJ’s still playing music at a low volume, but with the sheer amount of people all trying to be heard over the other, a normal conversation is impossible. Dorian nods. Truthfully, he’d prefer something fancier, but beggars can’t be choosers and it’s not often these little fundraisers have much more than the rum/vodka/beer options. Sera passes one of the glasses to him.

With a shrug, she turns to Blackwall, “Sorry, Hairy, you’re on your own tonight.”

Blackwall laughs, a low rumble. “That’s alright, lass. I’m sure I’ll manage.”

“So. Know anyone else who’s coming out tonight? Sera asks.

Dorian takes a sip of his drink, and nearly spits it out. It’s a warm, bitter, burning in his mouth, and he can feel it’s heat long after he swallows. He forces it down with a grimace. Blackwall’s started to reply, but Dorian cuts him off: “Shit, how much of this is rum?”

“Got you a double,” Sera says with a cackle. With a cock of her head, she turns back to Blackwall. “So. People. Anyone _interesting_?” She waggles her eyebrows at Dorian. He can only hazard a guess what she means by interesting.

Blackwall rambles off a list of names, classmates, a few professors, though he seems to show little interest in any but Josephine. If Blackwall thinks Dorian’s _infatuation_ (crush, despite it’s accuracy, sounds far too childish) is obvious, he should take a look in the mirror. Josephine’s one of their academic advisor's, though she somehow gets invited to all the students parties. She’s charming, Dorian will give her that. But, for the most part, it’s their group of friends that’s supposed to arrive. Varric’s already claimed a table, a long wooden one near the bar. Which signals trouble already. Dorian can handle a few drinks, at the opposite side of the room. He manages to have other fetch drinks for him for the first part of the night, until the alcohol steadies his nerves and he’s less worried about making an ass of himself. As it turns out, he’s not the one he should be worried about. Sera’s already at the bar when Dorian approaches. She’s leaning over, laughing at something Bull said, and Dorian’s about to turn and go back and wait until Sera wanders off, but Bull catches his eye and hollers across the noise: “What can I get for you?”

Sera, upon noticing Dorian, hauls him close to the bar. Behind the bar is a lit, open, backroom. He can see the legs of one of the Chargers sticking out from behind a freezer, the foot tapping away to the beat of the music. He can also see, in fine detail, the hard line’s of Bull’s face. You’d think the man had been a criminal with all his scars, one thin line down his lips, and another marring his left eyebrow. Despite this, and his terrifying height, he seems cheery.

“Bull,” Sera says, loudly, “This.” She sweeps her arm back broadly, nearly smacking Dorian in the process. “Is _Dorian._ _”_ Like Dorian is supposed to mean something to him. Dorian can’t stop staring at his chest. Bull’s wearing a dress shirt, almost half-unbuttoned, revealing _huge_ pecs, and the start of above average abs. It’s a struggle to tear his eyes up towards Bull’s face.

Bull arches an eyebrow. “Pleased to meet you,” He says, over Sera’s chatter. Because, has she stopped talking? Of _course_ not.

“I’ve got a feeling you two’d get along great. Because, Dorian, let me tell, he’s _loaded_. Not financially - well, that too, actually. Stinkin’ rich, even. But _loaded_ loaded. Impressive, even by my standards, and I’m not even into that sort of thing.”

Dorian grows increasingly red-faced, and it’s absolutely not helping that Bull is laughing. It’s a sympathetic sort of laugh, and the short-haired man standing next to Bull is cringing, but none of that dulls the embarrassment.

And then Sera, ever the tactful, adds on, “I _am_ talking about his penis.”

“Oh.” Bull blinks. “No, I picked up on that. Can I grab you something to drink?” It takes Dorian a moment to realize that Bull is talking to him, and longer still to respond.

“Yes.” He manages finally, “I’ll have whiskey please.” He slides his change across the bar.

Bull gives him a look. “Want me to make it a double?” Dorian casts a glance to Sera, who wandered off after making a sufficient fool of Dorian, then back at Bull. His heart does a sort of girlish nervous flutter. He slides another five onto the bar.

“That’d be great.”

He doesn’t go back to the bar after that. Blackwall takes pity on him and acts as a sort of proxy between Dorian and the bar. If he wasn’t feeling so embarrassed he’d call this the perfect set up. If he didn’t have to the pay for the booze it’d be the perfect night. Somewhere between his fifth drink, and his eight, he starts to lose track of the evening. Sera keeps trying to fight people, and someone has to keep hauling her off back to their table, where she sits like a scolded child, until a new target catches her eye. Varric amasses a small following of people desperate to hear his latest story, and winds up hiding in the men’s bathroom until they finally leave. He’s the sole reason the school paper is doing well at all, the addition of a serial section being it’s saving grace. Though everyone knew it would never reach the heights it had the previous year. The romance serial, Swords and Shields, had the paper flying off the rack last February, even though it was total drivel. Even Varric admits to that, quite frequently. Somewhere in between this, Dorian’s Medieval Lit. T.A. Cullen looses his shirt in a card game, and resorts to wearing this hideous winter coat. Which, Dorian is horrified to learn actually belongs to him. The man has his charms, certainly.. There’s a handful of girls in the class who practically swoon whenever he passes, but his dress sense can be appalling. He showed up to class in a loose, billowy shirt, like some sort of medieval knight, and it took w _eeks_ before Dorian could convince him to get rid of it.

Dorian, like everyone else, is sufficiently drunk by the time last call has rolled around. Except, he’s in the middle of a game of Wicked Grace with Josephine, and though everyone else begins to clear out, they’re not leaving. Cullen’s sitting to Josephine’s left, still wrapped in that jacket. Just watching, he’d said when he slid a chair up. Sera’s all but vanished. Someone saw her leaving with a pretty girl on her arm, so likely she won’t turn up for another day or two. Josephine wins gracefully. Infuriatingly gracefully, though something about the trace of smugness in her grin tells Dorian she knew he’d been cheating. With what little of his dignity he has left, he starts to leave. He’s barely made outside when there’s a large hand on his shoulder. The temperature as dropped, a lot, and Dorian folds his arms over his chest.

“Dorian, right?” a gruff voice says, and Dorian forces himself to stand up straighter. Every part of him wants to wither away. Bull is fine as eye candy. From a distance. Not this. Whatever _this_ even is. Just a conversation, between relative strangers, where one has been mislead about the penis size of the other.

“Yes _._ And you’re Iron Bull.” Dorian says flatly. “I’m assuming that’s not your _real_ name?”

Bull laughs. “Shit, no. My real name is Hissrad-”

“ _Hissrad?_ _”_ Dorian should probably try to contain himself, stop the incredulity from spreading across his face. Bull’s been a constant presence on campus the past few years, the thought of him being anything other than that is strange. Not only that, but a name like _Hissrad_.

Bull takes the comment in stride. “Yeah. Don’t ask. Means “Honourable”, or some shit like that. You can just call me Bull, everyone does.” He takes a look at Dorian, a long look, and Dorian kind of wishes he could read minds just to see what goes through Bull’s head.

“Hey. You need a ride somewhere?”

“No, it’s not a long walk. I can handle a bit of chill.”

Bull shakes his head. “Frostbite’s a pain the ass. You got a jacket?”

Before Dorian can properly say ‘No’, Bull’s told him to wait and rushed back inside. So he’s freezing, and more than a little drunk, and more than ready to go home because he has an exam tomorrow. It won’t be the first exam he’s taken hungover, at least. That’s hardly new territory for him. A few more people hurry out past him, stumbling and laughing. All look warmer than him. He’s contemplating just leaving, walking the few blocks homes, when Bull returns with a jacket draped over his arm. He thrusts it at Dorian. “Here, take it.”

From size alone, the jacket is obviously Bull’s. “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but I really can’t-”

Bull cuts him off again. “You _can_ , and you _should_. I’ve got a car, anyway, I’m not the one running the risk of catching frostbite.”

“Perhaps if you wearing your shirt properly, you wouldn’t be.”

Bull spreads his arms out wide, gesturing towards his chest with his hands. “What? And deny the world the view? Never.” He leans forward, placing a hand on Dorian’s shoulder. “Seriously. Take it. I’ll just have to catch up with you later to get it back, alright?”

Dorian’s not drunk enough to miss the hint. With a curt, somewhat embarrassed thanks, Dorian thanks him and hurries off as he puts on the jacket. It practically hangs off him, the hem reaching his mid-thigh, and the sleeves covering most of his hands. Still, he tucks his hands into the pocket as he hurries down the street. As he waits at a crosswalk (somewhat needlessly, there’s not a single car in sight on the road), his fingers fold around a crumpled up sheet of paper. He shouldn’t. That’s snooping. And yet, he pulls the sheet out and unfolds it. It’s a note, written in gel-pen pink. A number, Dorian realizes with a little smile, and a note: “Hey, let me know that you made it home safe. Bull.”

By the time he’s made it back to the dorms, he’s managed to contain his grin. Or, he does, until he follows Bulls instructions and sends a brief “hey, wasn’t murdered in the two blocks to my place” text, and Bull responds with a “Good to hear. Coffee sometime? :)”. Then the grin is back full force.

This is all Sera’s fault.

 


End file.
